


In Good Days And Bad

by Lumelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:51:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumelle/pseuds/Lumelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are good days and bad days and ordinary days, and while sometimes it may all seem overwhelming, Sherlock makes it all worth it despite the pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Good Days And Bad

Most days are quite ordinary.

Sherlock would sneer at such an assessment, perhaps point out that ordinary is defined by that which is commonplace, and thus there was no way for the majority of his days to be anything but quite ordinary indeed. Dull, Sherlock might have called them instead, dull and boring and uninteresting. John quite likes the word, however, in those sparse moments where even he craved a moment's breath. It creates the illusion that there might be a manner of normality to his life, however unlikely.

On an ordinary day he wakes up after getting adequate sleep, perhaps not quite refreshed but ready to face the world nevertheless. He goes over the cases and steps out for a bit, or perhaps he has a date or heads out for a pint with the boys. Sherlock is more perplexing than annoying on these days, even if the fridge might still hold something stomach-turning, and his obsession is bearable and his quirks perhaps even amusing. And as for John himself, by the end of the day he will more often than not sit down with a cup of tea, to read a book or perhaps write in his blog or just enjoy another day lived through. His leg might act up if it's been quiet enough, and his shoulder aches if the weather so dictates, but in the end everyone is alive and he makes it to bed under his own power and while it may not be ideal he doesn't feel he has the right to complain, not really.

There are bad days, too, there will always be bad days, when he wakes from a nightmare with a running heart and feeling more exhausted than the night before. On a bad day Sherlock's remarks are particularly prickly, his mania more frightening than usual, and trying to scrape together something resembling a case is just painful if John ever makes it to such a state where he might be able to try. On the bad days his shoulder is so stiff he cannot lift his arm and he finds himself leaning on his cane just to stand, or spending inordinate amounts of time sitting down and just trying to make it through the day. It sometimes takes several increasingly annoyed calls from Sherlock to make him realise he has been staring at nothing, nothing that is there to be seen anyway, his mind far off on the fields where good and bad men alike find their deaths. He is not concerned with social niceties on the bad days, assuming he feels inclined to interact with anyone at all. It is not often, not on the bad days.

He doesn't fall asleep on the bad days as much as he passes out, exhaustion overcoming his fear of any further nightmares. Sometimes, when he is really lucky, this allows him to make it through the night without any dreams whatsoever, too far from consciousness for even his mind to taunt him. If he is lucky.

And then there are the good days, the wonderful, incredible days that have no equal. Those are the days when his leg forgets its pain in favour of chasing a suspect down an alley, when his breath grows short not in exhaustion but at the thrill of facing death and still living to see the other side. Sherlock is brilliant on those days, brilliant and powerful and shining through with sheer life, truly worth the name of a genius he has assigned himself. There is a smile on Sherlock's face then, an almost manic, uncontrolled grin as he declares his triumph, as they share a laugh over something that may or may not be a laughing matter. They don't care, though, don't care if everyone else considers them mad for their amusement, if even Lestrade shakes his head or Mrs. Hudson admonishes them for finding hilarity in such terrible, inappropriate things.

Sherlock's laughter is one of the most beautiful things John has ever heard, the spark in his eyes the most inspiring sight, and as they face down every aspect of human depravity side by side and emerge triumphant from the battle he knows he could never give this up, not now, not ever. It's not the war but it's better, always better, it's the thrill of life instead of the fear of death, and if the thrill sometimes comes at the expense of the risk of ending all his delight and pain at once he knows it is worth it, it will always be worth it.

There is Sherlock, there will always be Sherlock, and as long as that holds true there will always be some good days, some brilliant, mad days of adrenaline and danger and triumph, and even when he lies in bed and finds himself weeping at the pain his body and mind cannot shake off he knows it is worth it, it is all worth it because he will always have Sherlock.


End file.
